HILDA. That's just it, Harry dear--you don't.
GIOCONDA. I came to ask you something.... (_Producing a ring._)
Ever seen
A ring like this? Not a bad sort of green.
HILDA (_taking it_). Emeralds! I worship emeralds. They enthrone
All the luxuriant summer in a stone.
Do let me just see how it looks! The third
Finger, I think, is generally preferred?
How splendid! Won't she be delighted?
GIOCONDA. Who?
HILDA. Your dear Aunt Kate.
GIOCONDA. I bought the thing for you.
HILDA. Harry!
GIOCONDA. _You_ know--a what-d'you-call-it ring?
HILDA. Engagement?
GIOCONDA. That's the goods. And in the Spring
The parson gets our guinea. What about it?
HILDA. See, how it fits! I couldn't do without it.
GIOCONDA. Right-o! Then, that's that: good. But if you carry
A diary, jot down, 'Next Spring, marry Harry'--
You might forget. You keep a diary?
HILDA (_bringing a small diary from her bag_). Look--
I did blush--buying an engagement-book!
GIOCONDA. Well, how's the enemy? Good Lord! what a shock!
D'you know, old bean, it's more than five o'clock?
HILDA. You'll have some tea?
GIOCONDA. Can't. Sorry. Told two men
I'd play a foursome with them at 5.10.
You'd better make the fourth.
HILDA. I really can't.
There are some new delphiniums I _must_ plant.
GIOCONDA (_going out, left_). See you to-morrow, then.
HILDA. You'll drive me frantic
If you're not just the teeniest bit romantic!
GIOCONDA. It isn't done. You're absolutely wrong
In asking me to do that stunt. So long!
(_She tosses the pipe and stick off, left._)
There! Did I play it well? You'd be my wife?
HILDA (_sighing_). My dear, you played old Harry to the life--
His gaucherie....
GIOCONDA. His noble self-command....
HILDA. The way he shifts his cane from hand to hand....
GIOCONDA. A nervous trick that shows how much he feels....
HILDA. All I know is--I'd have a man who kneels
And pours out passion in a style as rippling
As the best Swinburne--or at least as Kipling.
GIOCONDA. Then I'll now be _your_ lady. To your part--
Woo me as you'd be wooed!
HILDA. With all my heart!
(_Catching up her cloak, she flings it over her shoulder._)
Last Miracle of the World, sainted, adored,
Divine Gioconda--hear me, I beg!
GIOCONDA. My lord!
HILDA. Dost know of passion? Is that heart so pure
As not to guess what torments I endure
Who for so long have sighed for thee in vain?
And wilt thou have no pity on my pain?
Wilt thou still spurn me as a thing abhorred
Whose only crime is to love thee?